Cracked Lenses and Bloodied Frames
by Spitfire123
Summary: It had been ten years, he should be dead. His husband was dead, but he wasn't. But he should... 9-11 tribute. Rated M for gore.


He was there... God, the building was on fire, screams echoing through the morning air. Shock-filled faces were etched into his unwilling memory, scarring his mind with undesirable fear and desperation.

His husband was up there, clawing at his throat, or rushing down the stairs. Tears dripped down his grimy cheeks at the thoughts of him.

It was 8:46 when the planes collided with the southern tower, causing a large explosion, killing many instantly, while other burned to death, and yet others jumped to their deaths.

The Brit stood close to the site, watching countless men and women jump from the top floors or be burnt to death. He watched the body of a woman, olive skin, dark hair pulled back into to a bun, stumble out of the window. With horror etched into his face, Arthur watched as the woman fell, and, as if in slow motion, she splattered onto the cement, leaving a ring of blood around her broken body.

That's when he saw it. It was him, standing on the edge. Golden, haloed hair like the wheat growing on the Midwestern farm the boy had worked on as a child, a tan build, but thing he loved most about the man he could not see from this distance. Arthur loved his eyes. They were like the sky, before the dust, smoke, and debris filled it, framed by those cute little glasses.

Arthur would've smiled, if his love was not going to jump out the window of a 100 story building that was on fire because a hijacked plane had crashed into it. He kept his eyes locked on Alfred as if he were an angel sent from God.

If only he were an Angel. Then people wouldn't be falling to their deaths right now. Especially not Alfred.

Arthur watched as he threw himself out of the building, pulling a choked sob from Arthur's mouth and more gasps and screams from the crowd.

Once again, it was slow motion, only slower than before. His eyes looked at Arthur and only him, staring straight into the soul of his husband. His mouth began to form words Arthur could not comprehend at that distance, smiling all the while as if he were not falling down the side of a burning tower. He twisted and turned and tumbled through the air, and Arthur almost excepted him to land perfectly upright. But somewhere in the Brits head, he knew it was impossible.

So there he stood, watching the body make contact with the ground, blood splattering making dots on Arthur's clothing. Arthur flinched, hearing the body crumple on the road. The tears began a free fall decent across his face, dripping off the Brits chin at the end.

His glasses had skidded across the cement stopping right in front of him. He picked up the broken pair, and examined the cracked lenses, and how the whole thing was dripping with blood. Arthur cradled the glasses with care and concern against his chest. Tears rolled down his face as he tore his gaze away from Alfred's glasses to Alfred himself.

The condition that his husbands body was in terrified him, almost to the point of fainting. Alfred had landed on his back, instantly crushing his spine during the impact. His arms lay at weird angles, and when Arthur's eyes ventured towards his face, and, seeing his sky-blue eyes bulging from his nonexistent head, he sobbed harder. You see, Alfred's skull had been flattened on impact, and had seemingly exploded, leaving only a flattened face and eyes that seemingly popped from it.

He screamed, he cried, but nothing was going to make the American come back to him. Nothing was going to enchant Alfred's life-less body and make him come back to Arthur.

He stared up at the people coming from the top of the building, wailing every time one hit the cement bellow, staining the cement and the crowd. Endless amounts of smoke poured from both towers, and just when he thought his voice box was going to explode from overuse, a strong wave of voices and shrieks reached Arthur's ears. People pushing pass, running from the tumbling building. Arthur turned and fled as soon as his thoughts caught up with him, noises of fear making his way past his lips.

He let out an ear-piercing yell before the building toppled over his body, crushing him as he was screaming bloody murder... and sat up abruptly, wiping the grimy sweat off his brow.

'It was all a dream.' Arthur told himself, but somewhere deep down inside, he knew it wasn't just a dream, it was more. It was reality. It was the past that he could not change. Alfred was dead, and his left arm was crippled.

It had been ten years, ten! And Arthur did not know why he was still alive. He should be dead, they should've left him the in the ruins.

He sat up, looking at the nightstand, specifically at Alfred's case that housed the glasses he only took out on special occasions.

Lifting the black cover, he retrieved the glasses from their resting spot. The lenses were still cracked, and the frames still bloodstained, but Arthur, nevertheless, kissed them lightly and spoke to them as if they were his late husband.

"I love you, Alfred." And somewhere far away, Alfred called out to Arthur that he loved him too. And the Brit almost thought he heard the Americans voice above the sounds of seven o'clock in New York City.

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><p><strong>I'm sorry for those of you who were expecting adorable, heartwarming fluff from me, but those of you who know me know I could never write something that wasn't extremely angsty (unless my sister gives me the idea). <strong>

**I am also sorry to those of you who I made cry or scarred you for life. Actually scratch that. The point of this story is to make people remember these events, and if you read this cried, I think I did a pretty damn well good job.**

**And for those of you who are unclear about the ending, Arthur went insane. Simple as that. **

**Views and (especially) reviews are appreciated but not demanded.**


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